There's really no excuse for yelling, [I]"We are epiphany"[/I] on the gloom-laden stomp of [B]'And What Are You Wales'[/B]...
Well, he’s Nicky Wire‘s brother, he’s a poet and he’s wearing a black T-shirt. All this is mentioned in the spirit of stating the obvious, which is the creative impulse that seems to exist to drive [a]Patrick Jones[/a] as a performer. So here it is: the Lottery is bad. Consumerism is bad. Fight depression and strive to be free. Don’t put your hands on the hot plates, you’ll get burnt. It’s the kind of thing that makes even the most right-thinking actively wish for the development of a global Happy Shopper complex and the introduction of new legislation that forces everyone to spend at least #10 on scratch cards.
Watching this nervous man onstage, every inch the father of four, tugging at the neck of his shirt, shouting his words over a sturdy, goth-booted musical backing, nobody could doubt that this is from the heart. It’s just you can’t help but wish Jones‘ head had taken a little more responsibility for this word-culling mess. There’s really no excuse for yelling, [I]”We are epiphany”[/I] on the gloom-laden stomp of ‘And What Are You Wales’, nor for the pieces ‘Their Life On Their Heads’, ‘Philosophy (Father)’ which are reminiscent of the worst political thought for the day excesses of his brother’s band.
Before ‘This Terrible Honesty’, a late-in-the-century take on raging against the dying of the light, he berates poets who don’t keep it “real and relevant”. Unfortunately Jones is peddling poetic clichi every bit as pallid as his hated daffodils. This is poetry in stasis.